


A Horror Story

by Ferrenbach



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: Alternate Universe, Death, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Gen, Language, Love, Phase One (Gorillaz), Smoking, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 05:43:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16130846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ferrenbach/pseuds/Ferrenbach
Summary: The band wakes up in an old, abandoned house only to be toyed with by forces they don't understand.Important Note:This story is rated "T" in much the same way that some old 80s horror movies are rated PG-13. There are few to no graphic descriptions. However, some of the scenes might still be disturbing. Reader discretion is advised.





	1. Chapter 1

Dark and dust and the rough texture of unfinished wood were the first things that assaulted Murdoc Niccals when he opened his eyes.

His head felt relatively clear and his stomach steady, which meant no hangover. Odd, considering he had no idea where he was or how he got there, two things that usually required blinding drunkenness to come about. If there was one thing upon which Murdoc prided himself, it was his self-possession and an exact awareness of both his situation and possible escape routes in all but the most extreme of circumstances.

He lay still and took stock of his surroundings. Darkness, not perfect, but near enough as to make any distinction irrelevant, his vision revealing little more than shifting shadows. Dust, old and dry and clingy. The kind of dust that accumulated in those parts of the studio that were seldom used, but no one could be bothered to clean. Rough, unfinished wood, or else wood whose finish had rubbed away long ago, perhaps before the dust had settled. A sense of space, as though he were in a large room.

A shed perhaps?

Not draughty enough.

An old house?

More likely, but why?

A soft, breathy moan interrupted his thoughts and he felt briefly aroused before realizing the voice belonged to 2-D, a mood-killer in any circumstance.

In truth, he felt a wash of relief at the thought of 2-D being nearby, although he would never admit it, not even to himself. Not even long enough to acknowledge that he would not admit it. Instead, he was simply relieved that he was not the only one there and that he had access to canon fodder should the need arise.

“Dents?” Murdoc whispered, forcing himself to sit up.

“Murdoc?” 2-D’s wavering voice replied.

There came a shifting, dragging sound as of denim against worn wood and the darkness moved a little. Murdoc took a chance and put his hand toward it. He did not _reach_ for it – he would never need anyone enough to _reach_ , he told himself – but he put his hand out toward it because 2-D was the nervous sort and, well…

“I’m over here,” he murmured to give the idiot something to focus on. Otherwise, he would stumble around in the dark until he ran into the wall or fell through a hole in the floor.

Now _that_ was something to consider.

“Murdoc? Murdoc, I can’t… Oh,” 2-D half-whimpered, his voice calming when Murdoc felt 2-D’s trembling fingers brush his palm and then skitter over its surface like spiders, twining around his when they found them. “That’s you, innit?”

“Who else would it be, bellend?” Murdoc snorted as 2-D used their connection as guidance, crawling over to sit near him.

“I dunno. A monster,” 2-D replied.

“Well, that too,” Murdoc told him, turning the comment into a joke and secretly wondering if 2-D had the most naturally attuned sense of comedic set-up or was purposely having him on. Sometimes, it was disconcertingly difficult to tell.

He supposed it was the former as 2-D responded to the humour with his irritating, crooning laughter.

“I thought I was alone,” 2-D said, relief dripping from every word. Murdoc only hoped he wouldn’t try to do something misguided such as hug him. “Waking up alone in a strange, dark place… That’s when the murderers come to get you.”

“You watch too many horror films,” Murdoc scoffed. “Let go of my hand, I need a fag.”

2-D uttered a little noise of uncertainty and squeezed his fingers. Murdoc sighed.

“Lean up on me if it’ll make you feel better, but give me my bloody hand back.”

2-D complied and Murdoc felt him shift position, huddling up against him. This caused no end of discomfort as 2-D’s long, lanky frame meant a mismatch in height and his bony shoulder pressed awkwardly into the back of Murdoc’s neck.

“Tosser,” Murdoc murmured as he pulled his cigarettes and a lighter out of his jacket pocket. He carefully removed a stick of nicotine joy, fearing it would fly across the floor if he shook it out, and flicked his lighter. For a brief moment, the area around him lit dimly, revealing wood flooring and a lack of nearby furniture, and then it went out.

“Do it again,” 2-D urged him. “I’s dark.”

“No.” Murdoc puffed on his cigarette once or twice, and then elaborated. “It kills your night vision. You get to see a little bit around you, but everything else gets blacker. Can’t even see shadows.”

“Then gimme a fag, I’m dying.”

“Use your own.”

“They’re in my jacket. I dun got my jacket. It din’t come with me.”

“Fuckin’ Hell,” Murdoc huffed. He lit a second cigarette and passed it behind him. Not because he was feeling generous. Not out of sympathy for someone stuck in the same shitty situation. Just because, if he didn’t, 2-D would gradually get more frantic and make his life difficult. The singer was Hell enough to deal with as it was. Case in point…

“Where are we?” 2-D said, breathing out smoke.

“How the fuck would I know that, Dents?” Murdoc replied, annoyed.

“I’s the kind of thing you’d do.”

That was true enough, Murdoc supposed, although, if he were to whisk people away and leave them stumbling in the dark, he would not be among them.

A groan accompanied by low-voiced cursing caused them both to stiffen in terror and Murdoc felt 2-D grab his arm, slim fingers surprisingly strong.

“That would be Russel, then,” Murdoc said as a familiarity settled around the voice.

“The fuck you guys at?” Russel said from much further away than 2-D had been. “Never mind. I’ll follow the glow. You and your fucking cancer sticks.”

“You hurt my feelings, Russ,” Murdoc told him, feeling free to raise his voice some now that three of them were talking and incurring no wrath. “I’ve seen you stealing mine, so don’t give me any self-righteous speeches.”

“Yeah, once in a while,” Russel admitted as he drew in close. “Not like breathing clean air would kill me. You two got anything other than black tar holding you together, I’d be some surprised. Where are we?”

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” Murdoc said, now genuinely annoyed. 2-D was one thing, but if _Russel_ hadn’t figured out by now that he did nothing that was not to his benefit, then Murdoc was being much more subtle than he gave himself credit for.

“It’s the kind of thing you’d do.”

“First of all—“

“Where’s Noodle?”

They all paused as 2-D’s voice, tremulous at first, became surer.

“If three of us are here,” he said, “where’s Noodle?”

As if on cue, strip lights flickered on overhead, inset into the ceiling. Nearly burnt out, they offered little more than a weak and sickly glow, but it was enough for Murdoc to see the room in its entirety, even if the walls remained cloaked in shifting shadow.

The size of the room surprised him. It was larger than expected – the size of a mini banquet room – rough and dilapidated, wooden floor and walls splintered and cracked. No furniture graced it but for a small cabinet at one end. Of possible exits, only two presented themselves: a door in the wall beside the cabinet and a door on one of the side walls. Glass revealing nothing but blackness beyond stretched from the door in this wall to its very end, a picture window into the void.

“Well, wherever she is, it ain’t here,” Russel said. “You can relax, D.”

2-D trembled violently, hands shaking as he tried to ash his cigarette, barely able to bring it to his lips. Murdoc supposed it could be fear. It could also be cold. The temperature in the room was far less than ideal. Russel wore a shirt and a thick hoodie. He himself had a leather jacket. 2-D had nothing but a t-shirt, worn thin over the course of time. Of course the one among them the least tolerant of cold would be the one without a bloody jumper. That seemed to be the way the band rolled.

Not that it mattered much to Murdoc. He intended to keep his jacket. Although typically unbothered by changes in temperature, he was extremely territorial regarding his possessions. If Russel wanted to help the kid out, that was his prerogative. As far as he was concerned, if 2-D didn’t want to be cold during his abduction, he should have damned well dressed for the occasion.

“I hope she’s a’right,” 2-D was saying. Stammering, really. “I dun want her to be here, but she’s still l’il. Even if she’s at the studio, I hope she’s a’right.”

“She can power-kick zombies,” Russel pointed out. He seemed about to say something else, but paused, startled. “Did you hear that?”

They all stopped to listen intently. Apart from the click and buzz of the inset strip lights, Murdoc could hear nothing. And then, as if filtering through a very thick wall, a soft whimper, like a lonely puppy. It escalated into a wail, distinctly human now, and a smattering of words too muffled to understand, although Murdoc knew, from the sound and the tone, that he would not have understood them even if he had been in the same room.

He watched as the same realization dawned in the eyes of his bandmates.

“Noodle!” they all called to her more or less simultaneously, scrambling to their feet as they tried to pin-point the location of the sound.

Murdoc checked the door in the far wall and, finding it locked, pounded it with his fist hard enough to feel the impact all the way up to his elbow. Russel checked the door beside the window, furiously rattling the knob when he found it locked as well. This prompted a fresh set of wails, more frightened than before, and Russel pressed his ear up to the door as 2-D shouted frantically for Noodle to keep making noise so they could find her.

Murdoc thought, although it was difficult to tell, that she must have understood as the next verbal outpouring sounded anxious, but hopeful, and gelled into muffled syllables matching their names.

Out of doors to rattle, 2-D cautiously knocked on the window, which elicited a small cry of fright from Noodle.

“Right then,” Murdoc said. “If we can’t go through the door, we go through the glass.” He tugged at the cabinet, but it appeared to be built into the wall, completely unmovable. Nor could he open the doors to check for hidden tools. “If we can’t shatter it with furniture, we’ll have to punch or kick through.” He pulled off his jacket and began to wrap it around his arm. “Leather ought to be enough protection.”

“Won’t do you much good,” Russel told him, knocking on the glass and listening to the sound. “This shit’s thick. Maybe even bulletproof.”

From the other side, soft whimpers seeped through.

“If you have a better idea, I’d like to hear it,” Murdoc said. “Otherwise, I’m gonna try anyway. If you want to be helpful, see if you and your more than adequate weight can knock that door down.”

“Better luck breaking through it,” Russel told him. “It opens inward.”

“My way it is, then,” Murdoc said and mentally primed himself for what he knew would be a painful blow. It was not something he would normally do, of course, but 2-D didn’t have the physical build to succeed and he didn’t have time to fight with Russel. Noodle was trapped and for her, if no other, he would risk a fistful of glass.

However, before he could even wind up to throw a punch, lights snapped on in the room on the other side of the window. They were brighter and harsher than the lights on their side, leaving nothing to the imagination. There was no mistaking the little girl strapped helplessly into a chair, surrounded on all sides by gleaming new mechanical arms equipped with rotary saws.

Murdoc had the distinct feeling that, until that moment, Noodle had sat alone in the dark not knowing what surrounded her because her eyes widened in shock and she paled as she glanced frantically around her, taking in the sight of the sharp blades. She started to scream in earnest then, yanking on the straps that anchored her arms in place, squirming against the ties that bound her chest, her waist, her legs, unable to shift them by the slightest hair. She could not pull herself free, could not wriggle out of their grip, and Murdoc watched as the strongest and bravest little girl he had ever known dissolved into sobs of terror.

Murdoc hit the glass so hard it _whummed_ as the force of impact rippled out toward the frame, but it neither cracked nor shattered. Murdoc, on the other hand, thought he might have knocked a joint or two out of place.

Noodle’s crying petered out briefly and she scanned the wall ahead of her nervously.

“Must be a mirror on the other side,” Russel said. “One-way and most definitely bullet proof. We’re going to have to play this smarter, not harder. We don’t even know the real intention—“

The high-pitched whine of spinning saw blades cut Russel off abruptly. Noodle began to shriek and they all lost their minds a little, pressing up against the glass, banging on it, and shouting words of encouragement and promise that felt flat and empty even to themselves. On the wall behind Noodle, a timer flared into life, flashing the numbers 3:00.

And then 2:59.

2:58.

“FUCK!” Murdoc shouted, and then reigned himself in. It wouldn’t do to lose his head. He was the brains of this operation and if he didn’t hold himself together…

A click and pop from the cabinet momentarily caught his attention and Murdoc turned just in time to see the doors swing open. A tiny spotlight illuminated a stoppered glass bottle sitting on the only shelf. Sensing it had something to do with their current situation – the perfect timing of each stage led him to believe that none of it was a coincidence – he gestured to 2-D.

“Go check that,” he ordered as Russel moved to try and break the lock on the connecting door.

“But Noodle—“

“NOW!”

2-D scurried over to the open door and snatched up the bottle, looking it over. There was a label attached. He squinted at it, looked it over, read it again – brow smoothing as he did so – glanced up at Noodle, and then turned to Murdoc.

“It says, ‘Drink me to end it’,” 2-D reported in the calmest, most serene tone of voice Murdoc had ever heard.

“What the holy Hell is that supposed to mean?” Murdoc snapped, keeping one eye on the timer as it inched toward the two-minute mark. “We don’t even know what the bloody blue fuck is going on and someone thinks we’re going to swallow a random bottle of liquid? Sweet Satan! We don’t even know what it is!”

“You dun always get to know why you’re bein’ tortured, Murdoc,” 2-D said, offering a sad smile. “An’ you _know_ what it is. I’ve watched a lot of horror films, but you’ve watched a lot of ‘em with me. I’s poison.”

Then he unsealed the bottle and downed the lot.


	2. Chapter 2

Murdoc stood and watched, dumbfounded, as 2-D swallowed the contents of the bottle without hesitation and without pause. When 2-D had finished, he simply dropped the bottle where he stood.

On the other side of the glass, as if tied to 2-D’s action – and why wouldn’t it be when everything thus far had been so precisely timed? – the whine of the saws began to drop in pitch, indicating a slowing of the rotation. It picked up again slightly as 2-D hunched over, looking ill, but he clamped a hand to his mouth and swallowed hard and the whine diminished once again.

“D, man…” Russel said, sounding conflicted.

Murdoc could not see Russel’s expression – his gaze remained fixed on 2-D – but he could hear the uncertainty in the drummer’s voice and knew delegation was needed if anything was to get done.

“Watch the door, Russ,” he said, waving back toward it. “Pop the lock if you can. Even if the saws stop, we have to get Noodle out.”

“But…”

“Do it!” Murdoc commanded, but did not stop to see if Russel obeyed.

The saws were no longer audible, Noodle’s shrieks subsiding into whimpers, and 2-D had dropped down onto his knees, both hands clamped to his mouth in absolute terror of being sick. Murdoc didn’t think it would save him in any event – not without access to medical aid – but there was no telling whether vomiting, even at this late stage, would constitute a failure or not. If so, it could doom Noodle as well.

Murdoc knew all of this. 2-D seemed to know it too, small, pleading cries filtering out from behind his fingers as he begged whatever powers he believed in to let him keep it down. To let him, not Noodle, be the one to die.

To die.

Shit.

It couldn’t be real. It couldn’t. After all the things Murdoc had seen 2-D endure – Hell, after all the things he had done to 2-D himself – part of him felt the boy must be immortal. Not indestructible, certainly, but destruction could be repaired to a certain extent. He was, instead, something unkillable, made to take abuse, to be torn apart, time and time again, and always heal – if imperfectly – always regenerate.

Always forgive.

But he was dying now, and there was no denying it. There was no denying pain, or fear, or the tears that welled out of those damnable red-black eyes fixed intently on the window, begging to have saved the little girl on the other side of it, knowing that, even if he had, he would never speak with her again, never dance in the kitchen or jam in the practise rooms with her again, never watch horror films huddled on the sofa with her again, never share a nap in the afternoon sun with her again.

“All right, now. It’s all right,” Murdoc heard himself saying as he crouched down beside 2-D and dropped his jacket over the singer’s shoulders. His movements felt beyond his control, and though he struggled to bring his thoughts and actions into alignment, he did nothing to impede them. 2-D had chosen when Noodle could not and that deserved something.

Comfort. Soft words.

Something.

It was the least he could do, Murdoc thought, and if he prided himself on anything besides his self-possession, it was his ability to do the very least.

“Come on,” he coaxed, sitting on the floor, back to the window, and pulling 2-D down beside him. “Turn away from there. I know you want to see her, but you don’t want her to watch this if Russ gets her out, do you? No, you don’t,” he said as 2-D reluctantly looked away and leaned his head against Murdoc’s shoulder.

It should have been awkward, but 2-D was hunched up in such pain that his height ceased to be a factor.

Low moans escaped the prison of 2-D’s fingers and Murdoc drew him in closer, rubbing his back, and damn him if 2-D didn’t relax a little, pain and all, sinking into the warmth of physical contact.

“That’s all you ever really wanted, isn’t it?” Murdoc murmured, letting his fingers run gently through 2-D’s hair. “A little bit of care.”

Silly, stupid sod, Murdoc thought, but did not say. You should never have left your mother.

“Looks like her arms are free,” Russel reported, supported by a faint cry of fearful hope.

“You done good, mate,” Murdoc told 2-D, who had begun to slump against him. “I don’t know what was in that bottle, but I hope it’s, you know, quick. Just… at least that much. You deserve better than this. And I can say that ‘cause I know you won’t repeat it. So… at least that much.”

2-D shuddered against him and dropped one hand from his mouth to quest blindly between them. Murdoc grabbed it and squeezed it as Russel told them that Noodle was free and climbing out of the chair. She was still stuck on the other side of the window, but away from the saws. At the moment, that was all that mattered.

“Quick it is then,” Murdoc said. “Nothing here’s a coincidence. That door’ll unlock the moment you’re gone. Better in some ways, I guess. She shouldn’t have to watch. You know, I doubt I’ve been sorry for a single thing in my life, but I _am_ sorry you won’t get to see her again, Stu.”

He couldn’t help but grin at the twitch of the fingers in his hand. The bloody idiot couldn’t even die without being difficult.

“Yeah, I know you like 2-D better,” Murdoc said, “but it’s a special occasion. Stuart’s the name your folks gave you coming into the world. You ought to wear it on the way out. Good name, ‘Stuart’. Means caretaker, you know. You did it proud.”

2-D spasmed against him, hands flying to claw at his chest and throat, jaw clenched against possible sickness, even in this moment of panic. He whimpered and moaned and Murdoc pulled him in close enough to be held against his chest, squeezing him tightly as though he could redirect the suffocating feeling into one of security.

It worked, to some extent. 2-D stopped clawing his throat to grab at Murdoc’s shirt with one hand, clutching it desperately, his breath coming in strangled hitches. After what seemed an eternity, but was likely only a few seconds, 2-D collapsed bonelessly against him.

Behind him, Murdoc heard the deep click of a lock being released and a cry of desperate relief as Noodle burst through the door and into Russel’s arms.

This surprised Murdoc a little as he felt 2-D was not quite dead. Unconscious, certainly, but his weight was not a “dead” weight.

“Hold on to her, Russ,” he commanded as he shifted his weight, catching 2-D’s limp body on one arm. “I’m gonna lay you down, Stu. Nothing personal, you understand, but she’s gonna wanna see you and you should be as pretty as you can be. I won’t leave until it’s done. None of us will.”

True to his word, Murdoc laid 2-D down on the floor, stretched out in a false state of repose, thanking the devil himself that the silly sod had had the good grace to close his eyes. The soulless stare of those lifeless, blood-blackened wells probably would have ended him. He retrieved his jacket, pulled the things he would need out of the pockets, and then rolled it up and tucked it under 2-D’s head.

“You can let her go, Russ,” he said.

“You sure?” Russel replied. “Will she think it’s her fault?”

Murdoc snorted. “More or less than just having him vanish? Besides,” he stressed, knowing Noodle understood more English than she could speak, “it _isn’t_ her fault. Bloody bastards playing sick games is not her fault. Let her make her goodbyes.”

“Goodbye?” Noodle echoed as Russel released her and urged her toward her bandmates.

“It’s 2-D, love,” Murdoc told her, as she approached hesitantly. “He…”

In the end, he couldn’t say it. He didn’t need to, as far as he could tell. Noodle’s face crumpled into a look of anguish as she dropped down beside 2-D’s still form, touching him all over, shaking him, pressing her ear to his chest, searching for a heartbeat that no longer existed. She yelled at 2-D to wake up and Murdoc knew that she knew her demands were useless, but she yelled at 2-D anyway as Murdoc sat silently, holding one of the singer’s hands, rubbing the back of it with one calloused thumb.

He didn’t know how he knew the final moment had come, but he did. It was not so much a transition as a flat divide: before and after, then and now.

Alive and dead.

Noodle knew it too. She burst into shrieking sobs, gathering up fistfuls of 2-D’s shirt as she cried into his chest.

And underneath all the commotion, a quiet, metallic click.

The second door was open.


	3. Chapter 3

“You want to turn down the volume, love? You’ll tear your throat apart.”

“Shut-up!” Noodle howled, one of the first English phrases she had mastered after “hello”. Murdoc could not fathom where she had picked it up. Possibly from his yelling at 2-D, but he was apt to be far more vulgar.

Not a concern for Noodle’s future education, he supposed.

“The fuck, Murdoc?” Russel said with all the subtlety of a verbal sledgehammer. “She just lost her best friend. Give her a damned minute.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, Russ,” Murdoc hissed, “we’re in the middle of a situation. If she cries this hard, she’ll wear herself out and this is no place for a kip. She’ll have time enough once we get out of here.”

“She’s all of ten years old. Her soul ain’t dead like yours. Fuck man,” Russel said, sitting down heavily next to Noodle and taking 2-D’s other hand. “Just… fuck. He was just a kid.”

“He was only three years younger than you.”

“That ain’t that old,” Russel said, “but you know what I mean. Two steps out of his folks’ home and never had to fend for himself. A kid.”

“A kid who made a man’s choice,” Murdoc replied. “Would you have done it?”

“I dunno, man. I mean, I like to think I would have, but I dunno if I would have understood in time,” Russel admitted.

Sniffling, Noodle released 2-D’s shirt and climbed into Russel’s lap. He let her, dropping 2-D’s hand to settle and hold her, stroking her hair, offering what little comfort he had to give.

“I’m sorry, baby girl. It’s gonna be all right,” he murmured. “As right as it can be.”

“Don’t tell her bloody lies, Russel,” Murdoc sneered. It was not that he enjoyed seeing Noodle upset, but he knew she had the guts to push through and he needed her to gather all the courage she could muster until they were clear of the present danger. She might suffer afterward, she might be a wreck, but at least they would be in a position to deal with it properly.

“Look, Noodle,” Murdoc told her very seriously, catching her eye when she peeped out from the crook of Russel’s arm. “Some very bad people have hurt 2-D. I don’t know who they are, but they will hurt us, too, if we don’t get out of here. I know you’re sad and probably scared, but you need to be brave. Can you be brave?”

He knew Noodle understood more English than she spoke, but he deliberately used short words, enunciating them carefully. As upset as she was, he did not want her to mishear or misinterpret his request. He felt she got the gist of it because she raised her chin, lip quivering, and stifled her sobs, giving him one brief nod.

“Good girl,” he told her. “You… We,” he amended to not single her out, “can all be sad once we’re safe. We can’t take him with us, love,” he added when she glanced down at 2-D’s body, “but when we get out of here we can send someone to catch the bad people and bring him home. All right?”

Murdoc thought the waterworks would start again when he told her that 2-D’s body would stay behind, but Noodle was, all in all, a practical little girl. Murdoc did not doubt that she understood the complications and would force herself to be satisfied with a later retrieval, even if she did not like the decision to do so.

You’re lucky she’s stuck on you, he thought, glancing down at the body in restful repose. I’d leave you to the rats.

Noodle’s little face squinched up in anguish, and then she climbed out of Russel’s lap to kneel down next to 2-D once more.

“Bye,” she said softly and kissed him on the forehead. “Back soon.”

She stood, then, and said something to Russel in Japanese, holding out her hand. Murdoc did not quite understand her, but thought she might have told him it was time to go because he nodded grimly and stood with all the grace often invested in large men. Murdoc followed suit with all the joint stiffness associated with men a decade older than he actually was.

It had nothing to do with reluctance, he assured himself. Nothing at all.

“Are you gonna take your jacket?” Russel said, holding Noodle’s hand.

Murdoc looked down at 2-D and envisioned Noodle watching him steal from the dead. Of course, it _was_ his jacket, so it wouldn’t be stealing, really, and he might need it. He would do well to be prepared. Surely, she would understand that.

“Let him keep it,” Murdoc heard himself say. “It might get cold. He never liked the cold.”

Russel made no comment, only nodded grimly, jaw set.

“You have a plan in mind when we go through that door?” he said.

“Won’t know until we get through the door, will we?” Murdoc told him. “All I know is that we can’t stay here. The timing has been too perfect, too exact, to be a coincidence. Whatever this room was for, it’s over. If we decide to stay here, something will happen to get us moving, I guarantee you.”

“Yeah, but if the traps in this room are spent, there might be some in the next one. What then?”

“Eyes and ears peeled,” Murdoc told him. “Even if we aren’t sitting ducks in this room, we won’t get out unless we move. Would you rather take a chance or starve to death?”

Murdoc grinned as Russel’s brow furrowed, accepting this grim assessment.

“Thought not,” he said. “The bloody bastards aren’t done with us yet, that’s for certain, but we have no choice, so… Eyes and ears peeled.”

Murdoc thought the matter settled and moved to grasp the handle of the door beside the cabinet when Russel shouted, “Wait!”

“What is it?” Murdoc sighed.

“Are you sure the door isn’t trapped?”

Murdoc opened his mouth to tell Russel to get his act together, they had enough nervous nellies with 2-D around, but closed it again sharply. 2-D, of course, was no longer around.

More to the point, Russel was right. Any bastard sick enough to tie a little girl to a chair full of saws was not likely to balk at a door-triggered mechanism that would drop a weight or fire a gun.

“What do you propose?” he said.

“You’re right,” Russel told him. “We gotta get out. But we can do it carefully. Look, I got a bit more reach than you. You hang on to Noodle and stand off to the side. I’ll stand beside the door frame, turn the knob, and fling it open. If anything comes roaring through there, it should pass us by completely.”

“Might wing you.”

“I got the padding for it,” Russel told him. “Unless you’d rather try. Trust me, I won’t cry if your arm’s ripped off.”

“All yours, mate,” Murdoc said and held his hand out to Noodle. “Come away, love. Russel needs to work.”

Noodle’s brow furrowed in slight confusion, unable to reconcile opening the door with “work”, but she did not hesitate to join him. Murdoc drew her aside, against the cabinet and away from the door frame, as Russel pressed himself up against the wall. Jaw set, Russel reached out to turn the knob, and then flung the door open, pulling his arm back and away from any possible projectile.

Nothing.

Murdoc exhaled in a rush, not realizing he had been holding his breath. Noodle clutched his hand tightly, not understanding his fear, but knowing it had something to do with the door. Russel sagged against the wall and breathed deeply in relief.

The corridor beyond the door remained cloaked in darkness. Murdoc knew it was a corridor because enough light spilled out of their current room to see rough walls extending several feet into the void. The depth of it pulled at him and he knew the hallway would be a long one. Whether other doors would be inset along its length remained to be seen.

“Spooky shit,” Russel said with an accent that wasn’t quite his own. The white of his eyes seemed brighter somehow, as though, in darker circumstances, they might seem to glow.

“You all right there, Russ?” Murdoc said.

“Del!” Noodle chirped.

“You got it, baby girl,” Russel said, winking at her. “Not gonna make things rough on you all by manifesting, but I got some thoughts to share that’ll be faster direct than playing telephone, you dig?”

Del, one of Russel’s closest friends in America – and possibly something more than friends, Murdoc thought, although he had never bothered to ask – had been killed in a drive-by shooting some years ago. Russel had witnessed it happen and might have felt a good deal more survivor’s guilt than he already did if Del had not remained a reassuring presence. Already the victim of possession, Russel made the perfect vessel for the spirits of his friends and for Del in particular. He was the strongest of them, it seemed, and occasionally manifested physically – or spiritually, so to speak – although this required a loss of consciousness on Russel’s part. Under the circumstances, temporary possession of Russel’s voice was a better measure.

“Unless you’re here to tell me what’s going on, I hope your visits aren’t going to be an ongoing thing,” Murdoc said. “I want to be sure of where Russel’s head is. Wandering minds are apt to get us all killed.”

“He can hear you just fine and tells you to shut the fuck up,” Del replied. “I can’t tell you what’s going on because I’m dead, not a mind reader, you damned fool. But being dead means I’ve got my finger on the pulse of the supernatural.”

Murdoc huffed. “If you’re going to tell us this place is haunted…”

“Nah, man. Not haunted,” Del said, “but the house exists in a weird space. Some people would call it liminal, but that’s not quite right. It’s more like a nexus. There’s a central point and the house just… extends around it.”

“What? Like a courtyard and out-buildings?” Murdoc sorted, cocking an eyebrow.

“Like, it’s bigger on the inside than on the outside,” Del told him. “And someone’s learned how to use it. I don’t know who. I don’t know how. But I know you’ll end up turned around and confused if you don’t pay attention.”

“That’s London on a bender, mate,” Murdoc told him. He paused, wondering if there were any other questions Del might be able to answer, and then shook his head. “Can I have my drummer back?”

“Sure, man,” Del said. “Just wanted to make sure you knew. I don’t wanna see Noodle hurt either. She grows on you, you know? Ain’t no other way I’m gonna have kids.”

He gave Noodle a wink and Murdoc could almost feel the surge of courage that passed through the girl’s body in the way she gripped his fingers.

“And if you were wondering, he ain’t here.”

Murdoc felt the pit drop out of his stomach.

“I don’t know what you mean, Del,” he said, needing a cigarette, but not wanting to waste them.

“The kid. 2-D,” Del stressed, a knowing smirk creeping over Russel’s face. “He ain’t here. He didn’t join us. Whatever it is about Russel that made a home for us, it wasn’t the same for him. He ain’t here.”

“Good to know, but ultimately useless,” Murdoc replied, jaw set. “My drummer?”

“Chill your shit, Muds,” Russel told him, the strange light fading from his eyes.

“This is not the time for a discussion about architecture.”

“Look, I know you think it’s a waste of time, but Del thought it would be important,” Russel said. “Maybe it’ll make a difference, maybe it won’t, but it doesn’t hurt to be forewarned.”

“Forewarned won’t help us if we can’t see where we’re going,” Murdoc pointed out. “Eyes and ears peeled. It’s all we can— Wait.”

He pulled a folding knife out of his back pocket. The blade was small, maybe the length of his thumb, used mainly as a utility knife. Long enough, however, to carve a notch in a wall.

“I’ll carve exes in the wall as we go. That way we’ll know which way we’ve gone and can feel them even when we can’t see them.”

“Sounds good,” Russel said.

“I’ll go first.” Murdoc didn’t normally like to put himself at the forefront of danger, but he also trusted himself to find anomalies more than he trusted Russel. “Noodle can hang on to my shirt. You keep ahold of her. That way we won’t lose track of each other in the dark.”

“Hopefully there’ll be some light later on down the line,” Russel said as he explained the line-up to Noodle. In the end, the shirt proved too unreliable and she caught hold of Murdoc’s belt at his hip instead.

“Considering what happened the last time we got light,” Murdoc told him, “I rather hope there isn’t.”

And then, as equipped as they could possibly be, Murdoc led them into the corridor.


	4. Chapter 4

Time seemed to lose all meaning.

Murdoc had no idea how long he wandered through the halls of the strange building with Noodle clutching his belt and Russel trundling on behind her. It could have been minutes. It could have been an eternity. He could not have given his best guess, not even for money, and there wasn’t a whole lot he would not do for money. The few things he would not, he would probably do for fame.

There was no way of knowing where they were or how far they had gone. He knew they were moving because his fingers ran along the wall as he walked and there was variation in its surface, not only in the materials of which it was made, but within the materials themselves. Wood changed texture as his fingers passed over the grain, identifying knots, sliding where it was finished, sticking in splinters where it was not. He felt irregularities beneath paint and the mortared crevasses between cinderblocks, cement cool beneath his fingers. Every so often he felt rough plaster, pitted with holes, or the thick weave of wallpaper, riddled with tears.

By all these things, Murdoc knew they were making progress, even though he paused at every ten paces to carve an X in the wall at about shoulder height. This worked easily with wood and plaster, but not so well where cinderblocks were concerned. Even so, he scraped and scratched until he made his mark. It had already ruined his knife, but he forced it to go further, work harder, cut more.

Knives were cheap. His life was not.

He knew they were progressing. They had passed through doorways, tromped up some stairs, descended others, made their way along the edge of wide rooms and through the narrow confines of corridors. They had found no indication of an outside door, or even a window, but they were progressing. He knew it.

They had to be.

Noodle began to mewl complaints in Japanese at irregular intervals. She voiced them in a curious lilt at first, but they devolved into a whine as time went on and she uttered them closer and closer together.

Murdoc had never really managed to catch on to Japanese – not like Russel seemed to be doing – but he had started to pick up on individual words, which usually gave him a general sense of what Noodle was saying when she could not or would not communicate in English. Words like “dark”, “long”, “tired”, “scary, and “hungry” drifted up to him, making him feel simultaneously irritated and helpless. Didn’t she realize he was doing the best he could? Could he expect her to realize such a thing when she was only ten? What the Hell was he doing getting a ten-year-old into such a situation?

What kind of fucking father was he?

Not a father, he reminded himself. He was her manager, if anything. The head of the bloody band… or at least what was left of it. It was the furthest thing from a father, from a caretaker…

Look where the fuck you’ve left me Dents, Murdoc thought as he paused to make yet another mark on the wall.

“Hey, Murdoc.” Russel’s voice drifted forward, tired and strangely gentle. “Can we break just for a minute? Noodle’s worn out and getting hungry.”

“And what am I supposed to do about that, Russ?” Murdoc hissed, pumping the comment up with more exasperation than he had energy to feel.

“Just give her a minute,” Russel replied, cool and calm, not taking the bait. “I’ve got a candy bar in my pocket she can have. She needs something, man. She’s just a kid.”

Murdoc wanted to argue with him, just for the sake of arguing. Russel was a bit too smart and a bit too experienced for him to control and the way that rankled made him both belligerent and intrigued. It was rare to find a man he considered an equal and possibly a master, although he would never say so out loud. He wanted Russel in the band, he _needed_ Russel in the band, but his pride would not let him concede easily to any of Russel’s suggestions, even when Murdoc knew he was right.

Would not _usually_ let him concede, but these were special circumstances.

“All right,” Murdoc said. “We’ll stop a minute – for Noodle’s sake – but only a minute. I don’t want whatever’s out there hunting us down. Don’t lose track of each other. It’s blacker than a boatload of arseholes in here.”

“Your way with words is truly legendary,” Russel said evenly.

“Spawn of the Bard himself,” Murdoc tossed back, simply to have something to say.

Russel relayed to Noodle that they would stop and she could have some chocolate, but they would have to sit against the wall. The three of them backed up and hunkered down until they sat on the floor, knees touching to keep track of one another. A slight rustling rose out of the darkness and Noodle uttered a soft word of gratitude as the candy was presumably pressed into her hands. That would take care of her hunger for a while, but the dilemma only reminded Murdoc that other needs would soon arise.

“Don’t suppose you’re toting any water on you, eh, Russ?” he said.

“Sorry, man, no,” Russel replied from the darkness. “You feeling it too?”

“Not yet, but I imagine I will,” Murdoc told him. “I’m thinking more of Noodle. If she’s hungry, then she’s bound to be thirsty and none of the places we’ve been have had a suggestion of water about them.”

“True,” Russel agreed. “No baths or kitchens or anything else.”

Murdoc sighed.

“Then we’ll have to get out of here before it becomes an issue.”

“You think it’ll be that easy?” Russel challenged him. “We’ve been walking forever and haven’t found a thing.”

“I know that,” Murdoc replied coldly, calmly, “but it’s all I can do unless you have another brilliant idea up your admittedly generous sleeves.”

The dark and the silence weighed heavily for a moment, and then Russel sighed.

“It’s all right, man. It’s cool,” he said. Murdoc heard him shift and then Russel’s heavy hand clamped him on the shoulder. “You’re doing what you can. We all are. It might be the best thing we’ve got to go on, but I just wanted to make sure none of us were harbouring any delusions. If we come up with anything better, we’ll have to try it.”

“If it doesn’t sound like it’ll kill us all,” Murdoc agreed.

He needed a cigarette. Desperately.

Shifting around, he managed to fish the package out of his back pocket, mentally cursing 2-D for having his jacket. He shook out two, intending to offer one to Russel, but when he sparked his lighter, the brief glow it cast gave him pause and the flame died out before it could achieve its purpose.

“The bloody Hell?” Murdoc muttered around the two cigarettes. “Don’t anyone move.”

He stood up against the wall, careful to keep track of where he was in the velvet darkness, and measured two steps to bring him near the opposite wall of the corridor. There, he flicked his lighter once again.

At shoulder height, slightly above and slightly below, stood a cluster of exes.

The light went out, so Murdoc stretched his arm out to the right and lit it again.

More exes.

To the left. More exes.

Feeling his blood begin to simmer, Murdoc pulled an about-face and took two steps back until he touched the first wall. He sparked the lighter and…

“Those bloody _wankers_!”

“Hey, now. Relax, man,” Russel said and Murdoc heard the shifting of his weight as he stood. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong? What’s _wrong_? Take a gander at _this_ , mate!”

Murdoc put his arm out, holding the lighter, but even as he flicked it, lights inset into the ceiling flickered into life, revealing an entire corridor of exes – big ones, little ones, and all sizes in between – decorating every inch of the wall. Some appeared to be made by the same kind of knife Murdoc favoured, but others looked chiseled, gouged, or scratched by long talons.

Seeing them in the sickly light of the corridor was worse than seeing them by firelight.

“Fuck!” Murdoc shouted in frustration.

It was a testament to the direness of their situation that Russel did not object to the outburst, said nothing about young ears, or the need to keep calm for Noodle’s sake. It was a frustrating situation and it was understandable that Murdoc be frustrated, and this irritated Murdoc all the more. He was the one in charge! He was the one in control! If he could not even keep control of himself, the whole venture would crumble to dust.

“All right,” he said, slowly and deliberately, taking a deep breath. “Some rotter’s fu… toying with us, but we’re all right. We’ve made progress. We’re out of the room where we left… the saws. We’re on our way… somewhere. Somewhere is better than here.”

“And we’ve got light to see by now,” Russel added.

“A good thing if the bloody lights didn’t come on every time something terrible was about to happen,” Murdoc said.

“True,” Russel admitted, “but they’ve already come on and we’ve already been made fools of. That’s probably the worst of it for a while.”

“Good point,” Murdoc allowed. “I still don’t trust them.”

“We don’t have to trust them,” Russel said. “We just have to use what we’ve got while we can.”

Deal with what he had and suspect everything. It was something Murdoc could get behind, something he had done all his life. Doorways would be suspect, closed doors especially, but the light would allow him to look for mysterious cracks in the wall or on the floors that might indicate secret doors and hidden traps.

“All right,” Murdoc agreed. “That works. We’ll go on as before. I’ll walk in front. You cover Noodle from behind. If we run into dark rooms, we link up again. Keep an eye out for doors, windows, or any possible source of water.”

“And stairs,” Russel added. “Especially stairs going down. If we’re getting out, it’ll most likely be on the ground floor.”

“And stairs,” Murdoc said, somewhat annoyed that he had not been given the chance to mention it himself.

The decision turned out to be a better one than Murdoc cared to admit. Although he remained hyper-vigilant, navigating the strange building was much easier in the light. Corridors could be scanned in advance and navigated with caution and rooms inspected without the laborious process of following each of their walls until they came back around to the doorway. They even found a few rooms that had been missed in the dark, the wood of their doors almost identical to that of the panelling in the hall. These they opened with caution, and then explored, even managing to find the shattered remains of a bathroom.

Murdoc allowed Russel to play the hero and test the water that flowed from the tap of the broken sink. He waited a while to see if Russel would experience a negative reaction and, when the water was declared metallic-tasting, but otherwise sound, he tried a handful for himself and analysed his body’s reactions. Once satisfied that neither of them would drop dead, he let Noodle drink.

“Wish I had my flask,” he murmured, mostly to himself, but the comment did not go unnoticed.

“The last thing we need right now is you drunk off your ass,” Russel said.

“Well, I wouldn’t waste it if it were full,” Murdoc replied, allowing the acid to roll off his tongue, “but once it was empty, we would have filled it for Noodle.”

They stood in strained silence a moment and, had Murdoc been the one to launch accusations, he would have turned on his heel and stalked out of the room. Russel, however, was a better man than he would ever presume to be.

“Sorry,” Russel said. “That was unfair of me. This place isn’t good for any of us. What say we get the Hell out of here?”

“I won’t argue with that,” Murdoc replied.

They carried on.

The house appeared to go on forever. No matter how long they walked or in what direction, there were always more rooms, always more corridors, always more stairs. Up, down, some built sideways into the wall as though they wandered through an Escher-like landscape, never leading to what any of them could say was a ground level. In spite of the strange stairways, there was never any doubt that the hardwood beneath them was a floor or the fixtures above them part of the ceiling, and those walls without stairs could not be called anything but walls. The only features they lacked were windows and doors leading to the outside world.

No, Murdoc correct himself, that was not entirely true. They had encountered windows, but they were hardly worth the name. Painted over so that not even an iota of daylight could enter or boarded shut so securely that no amount of prying could uncover them, the few windows scattered throughout the building were functionally useless. In their presence, Murdoc wondered if a door to the outside world even existed, although he was careful not to show his concern before Russel and Noodle.

It must, he told himself. If they had been brought _in_ to the house, there must be a way to get _out_.

Unless it had been since sealed, whispered a voice from the depths of his mind, but he ignored it and carried on.

In spite of their bizarre circumstances, the sheer monotony of repeatedly examining damaged rooms and empty corridors lulled them into a false sense of security. They became complacent.

Or so Murdoc told himself.

The corridor did not look any different from any other. No evil energy emanated from it. There were no seats, no saws, no strangely locked cabinets. Cracked plaster flaked away from the walls, but this was not unusual. It did not occur to Murdoc that the lights were in sconces, rather than set into the ceiling, until they were half-way through and the first creaks and groans began.

Russel all but scooped Noodle up and threw her into Murdoc’s arms. That he caught her was a miracle.

“Run!” Russel roared.

Murdoc ran, Noodle uttering only the smallest squeak of fear as she tried to cling to his shirt. He was almost to the door when he felt the air displace above him as whatever immense weight was packed into the ceiling came crashing down.

Blind with terror, he did the only thing he could think of in that white hot moment. He shook Noodle loose and tossed her over the threshold.

Then the world went dark.


	5. Chapter 5

Murdoc woke to the sound of Noodle crying. It was not so much a sob as it was a tearful pleading, and he could feel her tugging on his arm as she wept as though she were trying to pull him forward.

Her whimpers faded into a little cry of relief as he shifted his weight and tried to get up. Plaster dust sifted down from his hair, stinging his eyes and blurring his vision. He managed to pull himself up onto his elbows before he felt the weight of rubble on his legs and kicked to dislodge it, weak and weary as he dragged himself forward on his forearms.

“Bloody Hell,” he grunted as dozens of tiny injuries protested his efforts.

Realizing he was not going to be able to free his legs until he could get better leverage, he wriggled around onto his side, kicking at the debris until it had shifted enough for him to roll onto his back.

And into Russel’s dead stare.

Murdoc’s last memory was of thrusting Noodle through the doorway. He had barely even registered the ceiling’s collapse. He supposed he had been knocked cold by a chunk of falling plaster before he could clear the room. From Russel’s position, Murdoc guessed he had dropped to his knees and braced himself against the doorway, forming a human arch to protect his bandmates from the worst of the debris.

Why Russel’s weight had not fallen on top of him along with the slabs of plaster and – stone? – that cluttered the room and piled over the body, Murdoc could not say, but he had heard stories of similar situations, where joints and bones locked into steel-like supports, and supposed it must be possible.

Supposed? The evidence was before his eyes.

“Hey,” Russel said.

Murdoc waited for his heart to start again.

“Russ?” he ventured, his voice hoarse with plaster and fear.

“Naw, man. Russ ain’t here,” the voice replied.

“Del…” Noodle informed him, sniffling.

Murdoc shifted his weight and managed to dislodge enough debris to pull himself back and assume a sitting position. Noodle huddled up against him, clutching at his arm.

“You got that right,” Del said, his – Russel’s – voice weak and papery. His words slurred, tumbling from lips that barely moved. “I can’t stay, man. Turns out we need a living body, even if that body ain’t ours. I held out as long as I could to keep an eye on Noodle, but it’s up to you now.”

“Figured he’d saved me ‘cause he thought I was still carrying Noodle,” Murdoc said, patting absently at a pocket in a jacket that didn’t exist, wondering where he had put his cigarettes. “Guess he just needed an errand boy.”

Del regarded him through Russel’s dead eyes – or so Murdoc assumed – with more disdain than Murdoc would have thought possible from a corpse.

“You need to grow the fuck up,” Del told him, “and you have zero minutes in which to do it. That little girl needs you and needs you now. This place is folding in on itself and stretching back out in strange ways, but you can get out if you spiral down the core.”

“What the Hell is that supposed to mean?” Murdoc snarled, unwilling to show how much Russel’s death unsettled him and refusing to let even a ghost give him any guff.

“I don’t know, Einstein. That’s a puzzle for the living,” Del said. “I just know it’s true and I don’t have time for metaphysical analysis. I can feel the Grim Reaper coming for us.”

“I don’t suppose—“ Murdoc began.

“I haven’t seen either of them,” Del said. “They’re—“

And then he was gone.

Noodle’s sniffles escalated into real crying as she huddled against him for comfort, but Murdoc convinced her to get up and walk a while. Not for very long or to get very far – his legs still ached from the few injuries he had sustained – but enough to get them out of that room and away from the sight of Russel’s body.

Once they had passed a room or two – circling left in what he hoped was Del’s spiral – Murdoc collapsed into a corner and let Noodle crawl into his lap, resting her head on his shoulder and digging her fingers into his shirt. She did not cry at first, as though the forced march had pushed the thought from her mind, but the tears returned a little at a time, first a trickle, then a stream, and finally a torrent. Murdoc held her in what shelter he could offer from his crossed legs and curled body, but he was not as tall as 2-D, who, at twice her height, cocooned her completely when she was upset, singing silly lullabies learned from his mother.

Murdoc refrained from singing, not wanting to remind Noodle more than necessary of those they were leaving behind, but she seemed to make the connection all the same, crying harder and clinging ever more tightly until she was overcome by sheer exhaustion and fell asleep in his arms.

It was dangerous, Murdoc thought. His brain beat him with that fear even as the knowledge that it was necessary kept him in place.

How long had they been walking? How far? Time and space no longer functioned as they should, but the human body wore out all the same. Noodle _needed_ sleep. She needed food and water and emotional support as well, but sleep was the one thing he could give her. The rest had all been the province of others.

He thought of Russel and Noodle looking up recipes online, learning Japanese cuisine and fusions, making omurice and learning to roll sushi even as they experimented with some of Russel’s family favourites. They had pored over restaurant menus, searching for new and tasty take-out options, aware that Murdoc was as apt to drink his meals as anything else and 2-D would eat whatever was put before him, if he remembered to eat at all.

But 2-D had always been happy when Noodle reminded him, Murdoc recalled. He tried everything she gave him and complimented her profusely, even when he wasn’t feeling well. He napped with her and huddled up on the sofa, teaching her to play the melodica, watching with gusto whatever silly animated show she was currently into. He let her ramble at him for hours in Japanese if she chose to, always very attentive to everything she said, even though they both knew he barely understood a word.

He should have been the one to comfort her.

“Bloody Hell, Dents, you stupid sod,” Murdoc murmured to himself as he leaned his head against the wall. “Look what you’ve done to me. Left me alone to deal with this rubbish…”

_You’re the smart one. You can get her out._

“And then what?” Murdoc replied to the thought passing through his mind. “What do I do for the nightmares? I can’t even deal with my own.”

 _Grow up._ Vestiges of Del in Russel’s dead voice. _Do what needs to be done, when it needs to be done._

“I’ve always done what needs to be done.”

For himself, at any rate. Murdoc could admit it in the safety of his own mind. But to do what needed to be done for Noodle, what needed to be done for himself would take a hit.

Murdoc snorted, almost a laugh.

“So that’s it, eh? That’s the big secret? Do what needs to be done for the benefit of someone else? Sod off!”

The intrusive thoughts did as instructed, but suddenly Murdoc felt less sure. His entire life had taught him nothing but to work for himself, because no one else was going to be there for him. The notion that his band had maybe, sort of, perhaps not really let him down, at least not most of the time, crossed his mind, but he ignored it. There was no use in trusting anyone. It only made it harder when they inevitably disappointed you.

But Noodle was a child and, while Murdoc was not one who believed that childhood automatically granted immunity or any special privileges, his personal worldview nevertheless included a list of things Done and Not Done with regards to children. On top of which, Noodle was a child smart enough, skillful enough, and brave enough to earn his respect… and that was a rare thing indeed.

Noodle slept, but Murdoc did not, every part of him on red alert. So he told himself and so it seemed. He only shut his eyes a moment, and when he opened them, nothing had changed and he felt no less weary and so he had not slept. He only noticed that Noodle was awake when she finally tilted her head to look up at him, blinking owlishly, her grief replaced by a strange, empty calm he found worrying.

And then the lights went out.

“Of course,” he muttered as Noodle uttered a little gasp and tried to push herself even further into his arms. “Wait a bit, love. Maybe we’ll see some this time.”

This time, they could. As Murdoc waited for his night vision to come in, the blackness near the floor faded to grey, leaving the ceiling in shadows. It was not ideal, but it was enough to identify obstacles or Noodle if, for reasons he did not care to fathom, they became separated.

He pointed these things out to her, speaking in simple sentences, trusting in her ability to understand more English than she could speak, and outlined his plan.

“Hold on to my hand this time, love,” he said as she crawled out of his lap and latched on to him as he stood. “We’re going forward, left, and down. You get that? Left any time we can. Down any time we can. Forward if there is no left and no down. Got it?”

Noodle uttered a little sound in the affirmative, her fingers soft and cool in his hand, and Murdoc wondered what cruel fate would make the life of a child his sole responsibility.

“All right, then,” he said. “Let’s give this a go.”

They proceeded as planned and, while it frustrated him at first that there did not seem to be nearly enough left-hand turns or downward staircases for his personal tastes, Murdoc began to sense a pattern in their advancement. It tightened imperceptibly, the further along they went and he harboured a faint hope that they were headed in the right direction and might actually find a way out.

He tried not to let his elation at the prospect of escape interfere with his assessment of the environment – one hand holding Noodle tightly, the other running along the wall to keep them on course – and it was for this reason alone he noticed the soft scraping from across the room. There was a metallic quality to it, a faint stretching and twanging that he could not consciously identify, but that his brain understood nonetheless.

Instinctively, he kicked Noodle’s feet out from under her and she went down with a squeal even as he felt a punch in the gut that rammed him into the wall.

 _I’ve been shot,_ Murdoc thought, his hand questing for his abdomen. He found no hole, only a thick, wooden shaft. Glancing downward only confirmed his suspicions, although the dim light permitted few details. The shaft was longer than expected and a slight shifting of his weight told him he was anchored to the wall.

The realization brought with it a wash of pain. There was no way he could bear to pull himself the length of the bolt and no way to stop the bleeding it staunched, even if he managed it. Worse, the bolt protruded from his abdomen at the perfect height for a child’s head.

Murdoc did the only thing he could.

“Don’t move,” he commanded before Noodle could think to stand. “Don’t speak,” he added when he heard a soft whimper below him. “Do you remember what I told you about trying to leave here? Pat my leg once for yes and twice for no.”

The shadows shifted below him and a small hand tapped his shin even as the metallic stretching and scraping began again.

“Good. Now close your eyes.”

Trusting Noodle to do as he asked, he pulled out his lighter and flicked it as he raised his arm above his head. A halo of light exploded around his hand, drowning the room outside its bounds in darkness.

The scraping abruptly stopped.

“Noodle, love, I want you to listen very carefully,” Murdoc said, jaw tight as he fought to steady his voice against the pain. “I want you to keep going the way we were going. The way Del said to go. Keep your eyes closed for two rooms if you can. You need to do this by yourself. I can’t go with you anymore. Go the way we were going. Don’t look back. Just go now, eyes closed. I…”

Murdoc spoke out loud, casting his voice to mask any small sound Noodle might make, but he faltered then, assailed by unfamiliar thoughts and feelings or, perhaps, not so much unfamiliar as unregarded and undervalued. Throughout his life, he had reserved his concern and esteem for himself, not trusting others to provide it, but now, for the first time since he was too naive to know better, he felt these things for someone else.

He wanted to hear Noodle’s voice again, one last time, even if he was unable to understand her, but he knew that any sound from her direction would only give away her location.

“I’m proud of you,” he finally managed. He could not say he loved her – he could not say he loved at all – but he understood pride. He rarely felt it for anyone else, but for Noodle it was warm, and strong, and true. “Go now, love. Don’t look back.”

The lighter dimmed and Murdoc flicked it again, levelling his stare into the darkness of the room, facing the direction from which the slow scraping had emanated, drawing attention away from the soft scrabbling and whimpers at his feet as Noodle crawled toward the door.

“Oy! Wankers!” He shouted into the darkness to cover her. The bolt in his guts made it difficult breathe, pulling at his insides with every inhalation, but he made do as best he could. “Yeah, you, you manky bastards! Fucking cowards, the lot of you! Abducting a bunch of numb nuts musicians and attacking them from the shadows… Right fucking twats, you are! Aiming bolts at a little girl’s head… I’d wager that makes your bloody mothers proud.”

As he vainly mocked his tormentors, Murdoc tried to fish through his pockets for a cigarette and failed, every movement a discomfort. It was hardly fair, he thought. Here he was, staring down the barrel of eternity and Satan himself could not see fit to let him have some nicotine.

He thought he might cry. He wanted to cry. Decades of fear of ridicule kept him from doing so, but if ever he needed to, it was now. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to die, and he didn’t want to die here, and he didn’t want to die like this. He wanted his band. He wanted to make it big. To be famous and popular and prove to the world that he could make it. That he wasn’t the failure everyone predicted he would be.

“Fucking fine hosts you are,” he spat into the darkness. “Get a man on his last legs and can’t even offer him a fucking fag. There’s such a thing as etiquette, you know. Last requests and such. Rotters!”

A bolt buried itself in the wall next to his head and Murdoc laughed.

“What use was that, you stupid gits?” he shouted, angry that his voice was half a sob. Angry that it hurt. Angry that he had to entertain the kind of animals that would threaten a child.

It hurt so much more now. It surprised him to realize that he still harboured illusions of escape, even as he felt them drain away. He closed his eyes momentarily, feeling a wash of despair, and then forced them open once more.

He needed to go on a little longer. He needed to make sure Noodle would have had time to leave this room and hopefully cross the next, disappearing into the maze of the house. He did not permit himself to think that their invisible tormentors could simply find her again. Whatever happened, she had a chance. He had given her that much.

Murdoc wondered if the others had seen it coming. If they had stared down that long, dark corridor of endless night. Russel had gone too quickly, he could not speak for Russel, but he thought 2-D might have. And if Stuart Fucking Pot could eye death as it came for him, then could Murdoc Niccals do any less?

“I thought I’d met the biggest idiot of all time, but I guess I was wrong,” Murdoc spat into the dark. “Even he wouldn’t waste a bolt to scare a dead man. You fire all your loads too quickly? That would explain a lot of your frustrations, now, wouldn’t it? Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you’re all just fucking blind.”

He thought Noodle must be well away by now. He hoped that she was. Every show needed a proper finale, and it was time to wrap it up.

The lighter had begun to dim again. Murdoc dropped it down to chest height. When it flared, he leered into the light.

“What’s the matter, you bloody bastards? Can’t you hit a target?”

When the next bolt struck, he thought it wasn’t so bad. He had been hit harder in back-alley brawls.

When the third bolt struck, he no longer thought at all.


	6. Chapter 6

Noodle huddled against a wall, listening intently.

She fought off the tears that threatened to fall, knowing she could no longer afford them. She was strong, she knew. She could fight. But her abilities had always assumed a knowledge of the enemy. Some insight into its nature or, at the very least, the reason for its hostility.

Here, she was lost and in the dark, both literally and figuratively. One was not normally put to bed by one’s strange, but caring guardians, only to wake up strapped to a chair, surrounded by saws. It had put her off terribly. Although she had never had the fear of monsters she thought she ought to have, given what she witnessed in other children her age, a saw trap was so far beyond what anyone could consider a normal occurrence that it had thrown her for a loop from which she had never recovered.

She knew she had to be brave. She knew she had to be strong. She had done as she was told and felt her way out of the room on Murdoc’s command, eyes closed, wondering why he did not follow, knowing in her heart that he could no more follow her now than could Russel or 2-D.

She had felt her way out of the room, turning left where she could, crawling along the base of the wall, patting the ground to look for stairs and sliding down them on her bum, giving her the leverage to kick if something should grab at her. Nothing did, but she took no chances and did not even open her eyes until she had reached a lower level and felt the space open up around her.

She could see, but dimly, the wide room an ocean of shadows. They were better defined down on the floor where she huddled, suggesting light filtering up from below – down and out, as Del had said – but melting into one another near the ceiling. An ocean of shadows, but a still one. Nothing moved, and that was a relief. It gave her a moment to breathe.

However, a moment to breathe also gave her a moment to think, and her thoughts turned naturally to her bandmates.

The lump in her throat grew, but she resisted the urge to sob out loud or cry out for them. It was useless. She knew it. But knowing did not make it easier to move. Knowing they would want her to be safe did not make it easier to move. Knowing that escape meant getting help to come and get them out – in any state they might be found – did not make it easier to move.

She buried her head in her arms and allowed herself to cry silently, ears alert to the lightest of footsteps.

Once her tears had run out, she felt a bit better. Well enough to soldier on, at any rate, and that would have to do. Part of her preferred to curl up and wait for the inevitable, to stay in this place forever, to stay with her bandmates, but they would not have wanted that. They had done everything in their power to prevent it and, if their power had not been enough, she must do everything in her power to do the same.

Otherwise, what was the point?

Noodle climbed to her feet, moving as quickly as she dared, knowing that cautious sounds were almost as bad as loud sounds. If she moved in short bursts, the monsters in the dark might think her a mouse, a rat, or a bird that had flown in through a crack or a hole in the roof.

She scurried along the wall in a crouch, nearer to the floor where the light was slightly better, keeping her eyes and ears open. She navigated the room and turned left where she could, found some stairs and crept down them, continuing straight on when she had no other choice.

She could almost feel Murdoc close beside her, his voice in her ear – _Good girl. Good girl. You get your smarts from me._ – rough and harsh from years of alcohol and cigarettes. She let him guide her with Del behind him – _Down and out. Down and out. Spiral down the core._ – and wouldn’t that annoy him?

Noodle almost giggled, giddy with terror, at the image of Murdoc and Del arguing behind her as she followed the rooms in sequence, eyes open for shadowed movements, ears open for suspicious sounds. She almost giggled, but did not, although she did allow them to accompany her. It made her feel better to think of them there, slowly joined by Russel – _Now, you watch out, baby girl, the floor’s all ripped up and you might trip._ – and finally 2-D – _I’s a’right to be scared, pun’kin. I’m scared a lot. You want me to sing to you?_ But even her deepest desires could not see them getting along for more than a moment and they argued together in her mind, even as they cheered her on, a silent, noisy squabble of supporters.

The fantasy calmed her, nearly made her complacent, but she knew something was wrong when the lot of them stopped and breathed as one—

_Wait._

Noodle waited.

Noodle waited and she listened and she heard the soft, sibilant hiss from the far end of the room, up in a corner, lost to the darkness.

_Run._

Swallowing a squeal of terror, Noodle scampered out of the room, turned left at the next available door, and followed the hallway to its end, turning left into the next room, and left again, and left again, which should have been impossible, but was not. Instead, she found a set of stairs and scrambled down them, even as she heard a deep inhalation of sorts, and the air was displaced in the room above her with an enormous _whumph_ , followed by light and heat and a rush of burning wind as the floors above were engulfed in flames.

She had closed her eyes instinctively, but the light still burned bright beyond her lids and she stumbled in her descent, crying out as she slid down the stairs on her side, scrambling to grab on to a railing or a riser, but unable to find a grip, until she hit the wall of a landing and huddled there, panting.

Above her, she heard the crackle of flame and felt the heat on her face, but dared not open her eyes until she had managed to reach the next level, bumped and bruised, but mostly unscathed. Once she did, she saw only darkness and shifting shadows. There was no heat, no flames. No smoked drifted down from the floors above. It was as though the fire had never existed.

She refused to believe it. Although she had not seen it directly, she had seen the world beyond her eyelids brighten. She had felt the heat that had nearly knocked her down the stairs. She knew it had been there, but now it was not.

Did the building repair itself? Did it reset? Or did each floor exist in its own reality, apart from all other things?

The latter thought scared her the most. It suggested that all she had left behind her was gone.

Noodle pushed the thought from her mind and continued on, keeping blind panic from overtaking her by sheer force of will. She followed the directives – forward, left, down – and tried not to think of the terrors that tracked her, terrors pleased to burn their prey alive.

She continued on as new sounds emerged from the darkness: the scraping of metal, deep breathing, the sound of something heavy hitting wood, and faint laughter, raw, rough, and ruined.

Noodle ignored it all, keeping it in the back of her mind, but refusing to focus on it, torn between moving as quickly as possible and suppressing the sounds of her escape. She held the threads of herself together as tightly as she could and kept moving, always listening, barely thinking, until she stepped through a doorway and into the face of the sun.

She screamed in fright and panic as the world lit up around her, blazing bright as from a million spotlights, pinning her in place as her thoughts howled and gibbered that nothing good ever came of the light, nothing _good_ , nothing _good_ , nothing _good_ …

And then it went out with a squeal of stressed metal and a ripping and tearing she could not – _dared_ not – place, plunging her in darkness, her night vision gone, lost to the afterimage that dazzled her eyes.

She crouched there, near the floor, braced to defend herself, even as the tears she had held back finally came. Tears for all she had left behind. Tears for herself and for her terror. Tears at knowing she had failed and would never leave this place. She braced herself and cried and heard the sound of footsteps, cringing away from them even as she willed herself not to be afraid, knowing resistance was useless even as she raised her arms to protect her face, and she uttered a little gasp in spite of her desire to roar when cold fingers touched her hand.

Cold, but familiar.

Noodle clutched at them instinctively, finding comfort in them and the broad palm above them, feeling the inch or two of wrist above that, and the cuff of a too-short leather jacket into which it disappeared.

“Heya, pun’kin,” came a voice from above, burnt and raw. “I’s a’right to be scared, but you dun need to be scared no more.”

She cried out in relief, but the raw voice hushed her.

“You’re not out yet,” it said.

“Yeah,” came a second voice from the darkness, deep and grinding as though speaking through a mouthful of gravel. “We’ll see you right, baby girl, but there’s no sense looking for trouble.”

She cast about for the source of the second voice, but her eyes still dazzled and the darkness stretched long and deep.

“Didn’t we just tell you not to go looking for trouble?” a third voice chimed in, choked and winded. “Keep the lad you’ve got, love. He’s still the pretty one.”

All three voices laughed at this in a rough, malevolent cacophony that chilled the blood although she knew, in her heart, she did not need to be afraid.

“A’right, pun’kin,” said the owner of the cold, broad hand as she clung to it, scrambling to stand. “Forward…”

“Left,” added the second voice.

“Down,” said the third.

“Out,” she whispered, her throat still dry with slowly easing terror.

Noodle was not out yet, but she knew she soon would be.

They followed the prescription, spiralling downward, and she clung to the hand offered her, comforting in its familiarity, frightening in its chill. Behind her trailed two other sets of footsteps that occasionally wandered away, returning in the wake of frightening noises of destruction. She did not comment on this, but kept her eyes forward, her feet in motion.

In time the darkness lightened and the presence beside her took shape, long and lanky, shrouded in shadow. She risked a glance behind and to either side of her as the darkness coalesced into two masses, one bulky and dragging, the other leaner and limping. In time, these two stopped and went no further although her companion walked along with her a little and she realized that the shadows had eased enough that she could very nearly define his face. Very nearly, but not quite.

He lifted an arm and pointed to the far wall where the light was even brighter, filtering through glass so milky with mud and dirt, it was nearly opaque. The weak light revealed a heavy door of the sort normally used for an outside door, light seeping reluctantly through the cracks in its frame.

“We can’t go with you, pun’kin,” he apologized. “We can’t leave here.”

On some level, she had expected it to be so, but hearing the pronouncement still hurt and she felt tears well up in her eyes.

“Wh-where…” she stammered. “Where…?”

“Wish we knew, love,” said the limping form, “but there ought to be a road.”

“Yeah,” added the larger form. “You follow the walk to the road and, if that road ain’t big enough, you follow it to a bigger road. Roads have cars. Someone will stop and help.”

“What he said. There’s always a road.”

“There’s always a house.”

“There’s always a place of shadow.”

Noodle sniffled and nodded, wiping her nose on her sleeve, and then, realizing they might not be able to see her in the dark, thanked them out loud in rambling Japanese. She knew they might not understand, but she did not trust her English skills in that moment. Free of the worry of vocabulary, she went on to voice her love for them, and lifted her arms for a hug.

Time froze and Noodle realized she had committed a faux-pas, but her closest companion acquiesced on the behalf of all and knelt down to embrace her, the chill of his body seeping into her bones and stirring up a terror she had thought she had dismissed.

He broke contact before it could overwhelm her and she stumbled back, recovering her composure in time to offer the darkness a little bow before running to the front door and grasping the knob in her hand.

She was surprised by how easily it turned, half-expecting it to be locked or jammed or otherwise fixed to ensure she remained trapped for eternity. She was surprised by how easily it turned and how easily it opened, and she could not resist one final look back as daylight spilled into the room.

The room behind her was nothing more than the dilapidated front room of an old house. There seemed to be nothing odd or supernatural about it, only rough and weathered floors strewn with bits of trash and broken furniture. It was only in the doorway across from the front door that the shadows gathered and deepened, a pool of blackness to which her companions had already retreated. She would have thought their presence a dream, a trick of her imagination, but for the chill in her bones and the dimly lit flash of denim and trainers from the doorway to the next room.

Swallowing her grief and fear, Noodle said goodbye and left the house, closing the door behind her.


	7. Epilogue

“Welcome back and thank you for taking the time to listen to our sponsor. Their support helps to keep our podcasts free of charge and allows us to bring you quality livestreams from the world of music, past, present and… future?

“If you are just tuning in to our new music of the week stream, we are here with international recording star, Noodle, on the eve of the release of her new solo album, _Rearview Mirror_. We discussed the album earlier in the show, so if you missed that gab, don’t worry. The interview portions of this stream will be available for audio download from your _emporium de podcast_ by this time tomorrow and the edited video shortly thereafter.

“Now, if I may… I know and you know that I like to keep things light around here, but our next segment demands a little sobriety. While I am thrilled and honoured to have Noodle with us on the stream today and am looking forward to the release of the new album – she has let me hear some of the music not yet released publicly and, let me tell you, you will not be disappointed – tonight’s stream is a little bit unusual. Rather than our asking her to join us, it was Noodle who made contact, asking if she could use this venue for a very special purpose. Is that right?”

Noodle licked her lips and shifted nervously, straightening her clothing. Webcam interviews were not unusual in this day and age, but it was the first time she had accepted to be broadcast via video stream. She tried to ignore the image of herself projected alongside the host and the steady scroll of signed in user comments that rolled up the side of her screen. She briefly contemplated turning them off entirely, but wanted to be aware of the mood in the chat room.

“That’s… That’s right, Aleysha,” she said.

“Now, you’re an artist best known for her collaborations,” Aleysha said, brushing back a lock of hair. “You made a name for yourself with your self-titled solo album and released one compilation album of singles recorded over the past decade, but most of your work has been as a guest artist on other albums. Now there’s _Rearview Mirror_ , a new solo album that you say has a certain tinge of nostalgia about it. Does this refer to the first album you ever recorded?”

“Yes, Aleysha,” Noodle said. “When I was a young girl, long before I recorded my first solo album, I recorded an album with another band called Gorillaz.”

Noodle flexed her fingers as she saw the chat window explode from the corner of her eye. Text scrolled furiously, punctuated with emoji, exclamation points, and links whose content she chose not to explore too closely.

“It’s no secret in the industry that, shortly after releasing their first, and only, album, Gorillaz vanished under mysterious circumstances, victims of foul play, leaving you the sole survivor.”

Hearing it put so bluntly brought a lump to Noodle’s throat, but she had chosen to speak on Aleysha’s program for many reasons, one of them being a dislike for beating around the bush.

“This is true,” Noodle told her. “All… All three of my bandmates died that night. I… told the police what I could, but my English was not very strong then.”

“According to the reports, you were only ten.”

“Yes,” Noodle all but whispered. “Only ten. When you are ten, you feel so grown up, so strong. It’s hard to learn that you are not.”

“I think it would have been hard, even if you had been older,” Aleysha offered. “There isn’t much information on that night, but, according to police reports and what testimony you could give, you and your band members were held captive in an old, abandoned house. They were killed one by one, but not before they managed to help you escape.”

“Yes,” Noodle told her. “That is what the reports say.”

That, at least, is what the police wrote down of what she had told them in her broken, inadequate English.

“And you have not spoken more about it since,” Aleysha confirmed. “It’s one of music’s great mysteries. And yet, now, with your new solo album coming out, you contacted us here at the studio asking if you could tell your story during my livestream. Is there a reason you would like to speak about it now?”

“Yes,” Noodle began, and then hesitated, trying hard not to fidget with the hem of her skirt. “First, I… I would ask for your understanding. This is a very difficult subject for me.”

“Take your time,” Aleysha said, her expression attentive, but radiating patience.

Noodle sighed, and began.

“When the… incident… first occurred, I was eager to share all I knew in the hope that I could help them somehow. However, the story was strange, and my grasp of the language was not sure, and the police guessed at a lot of the things I tried to tell them, chalking them up to a young girl’s imagination or the language barrier. They wrote down my story as they understood it, and not as it happened. I did not realize it at the time. I couldn’t. When they read my statements back to me, I tried to correct the parts of the story that were wrong, but again they wrote only what they were prepared to hear until I, too, thought I was misunderstanding their language and what they read back was correct. It was not until many years later, when I asked to review the statement, that I realized what must have gone wrong. However, by then I was older and realized how outlandish my memory would seem. I knew that, even if I protested, it would not be accepted as anything but a fantasy. It was not that the police statement was _wrong_ , but it was not complete and yet, by that time, it no longer seemed to matter.”

“You shared some information regarding the original case with me ahead of this interview,” Aleysha said, keeping their actions transparent. “Are you referring to the fact that the police claim no bodies were found?”

“Among other things,” Noodle admitted. “There were no bodies and I knew there would be no bodies, but it was difficult for a child to explain exactly why. I have allowed the assumptions made – that the perpetrators somehow disposed of their victims before fleeing or possibly transported the bodies elsewhere – to stand, but the truth is haunting. It has been nearly eighteen years since we woke in that house and the memories haunt me more and more. Music soothes the soul somewhat, and so these memories are a fundamental part of _Rearview Mirror_ , but I would also like to share them as I remember them. Perhaps I will be thought insane or that my memories of that day merged with the trauma of the event to form strange dreams, but I would still like to share them. I no longer want to carry them alone. I have asked you, Aleysha, to host my confessions because I have enjoyed your programme since it first aired. You are forthright and transparent, sympathetic and kind, truthful and genuine. Whether you believe me or not, I feel that both you and your viewers will receive this story in the proper spirit. As a memory and a dedication. I realize my words might be shared, although I hope it will not be for profit, and that some might mock them, but I have faith that you will not do so here, no matter your opinion.”

The interviewer looked startled by the assessment, but every word was true. Insofar as one could trust the media, Noodle trusted Aleysha to properly handle information shared on her streams and podcasts as much as she was able and for as long as she held control. She also trusted Aleysha to conduct the interview with decorum and allow her some rein.

She was not disappointed.

“That is… very flattering, especially from someone of your renown,” Aleysha said, looking flustered, but managing to keep her cool, yet inviting, demeanour. “I have prepared some questions based on the information you shared with me. However, given that this is _your_ story of that night, I leave the option up to you. Would you like me to guide this conversation, or would you prefer to tell us about the incident directly?”

“Thank you for asking,” Noodle told her. “I think I would like to tell this story from start to finish, uninterrupted, if I may. Although it has been a long time, the events have been on my mind, and I would not like to give you incorrect information because I was thrown off by an unexpected question. Questions can be asked afterward, if you would like clarification.”

“That works for me,” Aleysha said. “Please take any time you need and begin when you are ready.”

Noodle nodded and smiled, even as her heart rate increased and her hands felt cold and clammy.

“Please remember that these are the events from the perspective of a little girl, nearly twenty years removed from the situation,” she said. “The memories haunt me, but are not perfect.”

She took a deep breath and began.

She recounted it all, as she could remember it. The waking in a death trap. 2-D’s exchange. The seemingly endless corridors walked in the dark, clinging to Murdoc’s belt. The trail obscured with walls full of exes. The faint memory of the ceiling’s collapse and Russel’s attempt to shelter them. Del’s instructions. The fear that wafted off of Murdoc even as he fought to keep control of the situation. His death in the dark. One she could not see, but knew had bought her escape. The gout of flame that should have set the entire house alight, but vanished instead without a trace when she reached a lower level.

She recounted it all, as she had gone over it in her mind many times before. She told Aleysha and her audience everything. Everything, but the very end.

“I feel as though they guided me after that,” she said instead. “That was when I somehow managed to find a room that was different. A room where light seeped in from the outside. I thought the door would be locked, but it opened easily and the room I was in… the room looked normal. The house looked normal. Even from the outside, it seemed abandoned, but normal. So I was not surprised that the police found nothing when they entered from the front. They entered the house conventionally, you see, and we did not. I don’t know how we got there. I don’t know what brought us there. I went to bed in a hotel and woke up strapped to a chair. But I was not surprised to find the strangeness could not be entered the same way I escaped.”

Noodle paused then, looking down and toying with her fingers. The memory left her raw and wounded, but also at peace. It was good to finally say everything out loud. The audience might think she lost her mind, but at least she would not be alone in what she knew.

Or at least in most of what she knew.

From the corner of her eye, Noodle saw Aleysha pause along with her, head bowed in respectful silence. After a moment, the interviewer glanced to the side, obviously reading the chat log. She allowed the silence to stand a little longer before speaking.

“Thank you for sharing this with us,” she said, her voice warm and genuine. “I won’t pretend to understand the situation any better than the police. I think that, if a child had told me a similar story, I might have thought it confusion brought on by trauma, much as they did.”

“And I wouldn’t blame you,” Noodle told her, “any more than I blame them. I won’t even insist that the situation was misinterpreted, although I know what I saw and what has stayed with me all this time.”

“And how do you feel about the theory currently being discussed in the stream’s chat?” Aleysha prompted. “That you and your bandmates might have been drugged without your knowledge, distorting your perception of time, space, and even direction. This would not discount any of the murders, only the way you perceived them. The flame you described might even correspond to a furnace or other method of disposal, which would explain why no bodies were found.”

“The theory is not unsound,” Noodle said. “There was no evidence of murder in the house from which I escaped or of a furnace that could be used in such a way. It could be argued that I passed out and was transported to the house from elsewhere, especially if I was drugged. My blood was tested as a matter of course and showed no evidence of any known drug or poison that could account for such hallucinations, and yet…”

Noodle shrugged and offered an accepting smile. “Perhaps we were guinea pigs for something new. Lab rats of a sort. It seems odd to kidnap someone so recently in the public eye for such a purpose, but what do I know of such things? I only know what I saw and felt when I was ten years old. It was something I needed to share. Not with a doctor or a therapist or even a close friend, but with a close community, who might know who my bandmates were and could appreciate what they meant to me. What they still mean to me. I did not know them for very long. Only three years, perhaps. But in that time, they raised me as best they could. They were my friends and my family, my caretakers and my teachers. They are still an influence in everything I do and I cannot help but feel that they would most enjoy having their story told to a group of people who love music and its history so very much.”

Aleysha offered another moment of silence, head bowed, before continuing.

“Thank you for sharing your story of such a tragic event. We listeners can never really understand the things you saw or felt that day. Regardless of whether or not your memories were distorted, the fact remains that you were young and that you lost three people who were very special to you. However, it is my understanding that you did receive some support. Would you like to share some of the aftermath of this event with us?”

“This is true,” Noodle confirmed. “Once I found a road and followed it to where I could flag down a car, the family that picked me up was very kind and brought me immediately to the police. Because I could not make them understand who I was, they posted my picture on the news as an unrelated case, asking for people to identify me. As it happens, I had spent time with 2-D’s parents and they recognized me. They came in to identify me. It was, sadly, how they came to learn of their son’s fate. It was… a very difficult time. However, we found consolation of a sort with each other. That was when they began the process to legally adopt me. In time I met Russel’s family as well and have stayed in contact with his aunt and uncle, who are living in England. If Murdoc had any surviving family members, they did not present themselves to me.”

“The story of your adoption and eventual return to the stage has been covered more than once in interviews, so we won’t go into it here,” Aleysha said. “Instead, I would like to go back to _Rearview Mirror_ for a moment. You say this album is greatly influenced by the memories that haunt you. Would you call it a tribute album to those who gave their lives for you?”

“No!” Noodle snapped with unintended vehemence. Aleysha jumped, startled by her reaction, and she apologized profusely.

“I’m sorry, but no,” Noodle repeated, willing herself to calm. “They did not die _for_ me. I would not have asked it of them beforehand and now, knowing what it is to be the survivor, I would be offended by anyone who offered. They did not die _for_ me. Their deaths did nothing _for_ me. They died _instead_ of me and for every moment that they lived and breathed they pushed ahead to keep me alive, _all of us_ alive, as long as they could. It would have been so easy to give up, I know. I very nearly did. But they walked and they improvised and they distracted and they shielded and they _paid_. They _paid_ and paid willingly in spite of being so young.

“It’s a strange thing to realize, but 2-D and Russel were _young_. Younger than I am now. They were the adults in my life, but I’ve surpassed them. Soon, I will out-age Murdoc as well and one day I will look back on a life that, to me, will seem to have been bought with the lives of children. To breathe life into their memories through the music in _Rearview Mirror_ is the least I can do in return, but I wish… I wish they were here to breathe that life into the music with me.”

Noodle paused then, touching her thumb to her eye to disperse the gathering tears. Uncertain how she should finish, she wrapped it up as honestly as she could.

“Never look at the people in your life and wonder who would die for you,” she said. “Ask who will _live_ for you instead.”

The chat box sat strangely quiet. Only brief and staggered condolences scrolled haphazardly up the screen.

“I think that is a beautiful message on which to leave this interview,” Aleysha said after a moment’s time. “If you have further memories you would like to share, you are welcome to stay for the post-stream discussion, but I will forgo any additional questions.”

Noodle thanked Aleysha for the offer and regretfully declined, stating that she would be happy to visit the community again, perhaps in a follow up to the new album’s release. Aleysha thanked her in return with all the genuine warmth and honesty she had hoped for when she reached out to the hostess. She did not really think her story would be believed – at the very least it would be adulterated by more palatable theories such as those introduced by the chat – but the sincerity with which Aleysha had received her would give the story weight. If it were to be dismissed, it would be dismissed as the sadness of a little girl haunted by traumatic memories, not as the fabrication of a madwoman or, worse, a fraudulent tale for personal profit.

Taking her leave of the stream, Noodle shut off the computer and shouldered her handbag. She called and left a message for Rachel Pot, confirming that she would be visiting for supper, and then set off for a drive.

Once she started making money as a musician, the first thing she did was look up the property on which the house stood. Oddly enough, although she found it unsurprising, the house, the lot, and several surrounding lots were owned by a particular bank that had foreclosed upon mortgages once upon a time and managed to lose sight of the paperwork. They were quite surprised when she came to them with an offer, but happy to get the land off their hands once the details were sorted out.

The first thing she had done was raze all buildings to the ground, fill in foundations, and turn the area into a public green space and zen garden with two gazebos for shade and shelter. All paths spiralled toward a man-made hill at the centre, on top of which sat a small, octagonal structure. It was specially sound-proofed with one-way glass for maximum privacy. Those in the music world who knew her, knew as well that it was her mini studio, a place of solitude and silence, where she could work on projects and defy the trauma of her childhood with her creative energy. Though many could approach, none but she could enter, no matter how hard they tried.

It was an enigma, a source of industry speculation and delight.

It had been featured in entertainment magazines.

_There was always a road._

Noodle followed the long and winding path, allowing its meandering trail to free her thoughts and her mind as she spiralled ever closer to the core. Forward, to the right, and upward.

_There was always a house._

Multiple scans as well as a key unlocked the front door and she entered. The early afternoon sun streamed through the windows, lighting the comfortable chairs, the small side tables, and the instruments she had installed there: the drum kit and rhythm machine, the keyboards and melodica, the bright red bass named El Diablo, and, off to the side, her old Les Paul.

Across from the front door was a different door, one that could not be seen from the outside. It was the front door to a house, ancient, cracked, and peeling.

_There was always a place of shadow._

Noodle secured the door behind her and closed the window shutters, plunging the room into darkness until her eyes adjusted enough to make out the shapes of the instruments and sparse furnishings. She picked up the Les Paul, perched herself on the edge of one plush chair, and strummed a chord.

The old door opened with the wail of the damned.

“Saw the interview, love. You were entirely too flattering of these sad sacks.”

“I told you you’d like the wifi,” Noodle said, smiling to herself. “I hope I didn’t make a fool of myself.”

“I thought it was lovely. You din’t need to, though. We dun need that kind of spotlight.”

“Speak for yourself, dullard.”

“You did a great job, baby girl. You didn’t need to do it, but it was nice of you all the same.”

“Well,” she admitted. “I mainly did it for myself. I couldn’t… I couldn’t stand to release more music as a ‘solo’ artist when you three have helped me _so_ much. And yet, there are things one can never really admit to.”

“Tell them I ghost-wrote it, love.” A crusted chuckle followed. “If they believe what you said today, they’ll believe anything.”

“How’s mum and dad?”

Noodle grinned at the disgruntled noises that followed the derailment, but she chose to let it stand.

“They’re fine,” she said. “They miss you. I’m having supper with them tonight.”

A sort of strangled silence followed.

“I will give them my love on your behalf,” she said to alleviate it.

“Well, if we’re gonna live through your music, baby girl…“ A brief drum roll sounded in the dark, followed by the clash of a cymbal. “Let’s live.”

Noodle adjusted her fingers along the neck of the guitar and smiled.


End file.
